Wicked Winters

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Wicked Winters Page 28

by Melanie Karsak et al.


  For a moment, as she caught her breath, Maggie stood before great black maw in the river from which she had emerged. There was no light coming up from below. Lucinda was gone, as was Kindler. Maggie closed her eyes again and felt for that presence that had been beside her, but now Jerry was gone as well.

  She wanted more, of course. She wanted forever. But this would have to be enough.

  Behind her, the sounds of shouts arose from the woods. She heard Neal’s voice among others. Backup had arrived. They were coming for her to take her home. She was ready to go.

  Maggie turned away from the depths and from the dead she’d left there, and she started the slow trudge back toward the living. She’d promised Andy a present that night. He was going to have it.

  About Brian

  Connect with Brian online at

  www.brianhocevar.com

  A Dead Man’s Gift by David Barbur

  A Dead Man’s Gift Description

  Tye Caine wants to find peace in the mist-filled mountains of the Pacific Northwest. Instead, he finds a mystery, and receives a gift from a dead man.

  A Dead Man’s Gift

  Tye was hunting elk when he met the dead man.

  The inside of the truck smelled of mildew and stale coffee. Rain, whipped by the November wind, pelted the windshield as Tye waited out the storm. He saw a band of blue sky coming, and behind that, another rain squall.

  Tye sat in his truck at the dead end of a forest road, on a ridge that stuck out into the river valley. Even though he hated to waste the gas, it was nice to sit inside with the heater running and dry his clothes. He poured more lukewarm coffee, hoping to drive off the chill the damp air had driven into his bones.

  When the truck was sitting still, he didn’t have to listen to the whining noise coming from the transmission, or smell the stink of burnt fluid after a long uphill climb. Hopefully, the damn thing would last long enough to get him home, and not leave him stranded in the woods.

  On the seat beside him sat a copy of Olaus Murie's "The Elk of North America," borrowed several times from the county library, and now a couple days overdue. Tye had studied it for hours, hoping to unearth the secret of finding an elk here in the mountains of Western Washington. He’d killed plenty of elk before, but always in Montana and Wyoming, where he could see for miles. Tye was amazed how a 700-pound animal could vanish in these dense forests. He’d seen one elk for a fleeting second, but didn’t pull the trigger because he didn’t want to risk a shot to the guts. Tye debated between opening Maurie's book for the hundredth time, in the hopes of gleaning a new nugget of wisdom, and throwing it out the window into the rain.

  The rain stopped as if someone had thrown a switch. Tye sighed, put on his hat and opened the truck door. If he found a place to sit until dark, he could go home and say he'd tried.

  He heard the growl of an engine and the crunch of gravel under tires. A pickup pulled up behind him.

  Tye had an eye for pickup trucks and what they said about their owners. It was an older model, but well maintained. It wore a sensible set of all-terrain tires, but wasn’t jacked up or burdened with chrome accessories. To Tye’s practiced eye, that said a practical-minded owner who was likely an older man.

  An old guy got out. His age was hard to place. He could have been 60, maybe as old as 80. He was tall and rawboned, with big gnarly hands and a full head of gray hair slicked back with a product that was probably hard to find these days. He wore logging boots, a patched pair of jeans, and a striped Arrow shirt. One of his eyeteeth had a gold crown.

  “Seeing anything?” As the old guy walked toward him, Tye noticed he had a slight limp, what Gary, Tye’s best friend called a “hitch in his giddy up.”

  “Nothing but trees.” Tye wasn’t in a mood to talk. But since they’d moved here, Tye and Gary found the locals a standoffish bunch, so it would be a mistake to turn down any friendly gesture. Besides, the guy might know about hunting elk.

  “You just driving the roads or wearing out shoe leather?” As he got closer, Tye felt the old guy sizing him up.

  Tye shook his head. “I’ve walked more miles than I can count. Uphill. Downhill. Sidehill. I’ve seen elk tracks, elk bedding areas, signs of elk browse, elk scat that was still warm, but I haven’t got an elk.”

  The old guy laughed. “Well, that’s why they call it elk hunting, and not elk shooting. My freezer is empty too. Hell, I had to sneak out of the house. My wife doesn’t think I should be out here by myself. My name’s Gilford.”

  When Tye shook his hand, it was like gripping an old piece of gnarled wood. He was glad Gilford wasn’t one to play macho games with his handshake. He thought the old guy could have crushed his hand.

  “I’m Tye.” When he said it, he searched the other man’s face for signs of recognition. Even though he hadn’t been paid yet, the television show was on the air. Tye kept getting recognized at the gas station and the grocery store.

  “I don’t think we’ve met. Have we?” Gilford asked.

  Apparently he wasn’t a TV fan.

  “Don’t think we have,” Tye said. “My buddy and his girlfriend moved here two months ago. I came in last week. We bought that place a mile from the campground.”

  “The old Milner place? You’ve done a bunch of work out there. That place went to pot since they moved. You see that road over there?” Surprised by the change of subject, it took Tye a second to realize Gilford was pointing across the valley, where Tye saw the slender thread of a forest road miles away.

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “After the war, I was on the crew that cut that road. I drove a D9 Cat up there and it kept getting steeper and steeper. The foreman yelled at me to keep going. That damn dozer flipped and almost killed me. Broke my leg in a bunch of places. I still don’t walk right.”

  “Wow.” Tye tried to figure out which war he was talking about. He was still having trouble trying to figure out how old Gilford was. “Sounds like you know these woods.”

  “Spent my whole life up here. When I wasn’t building roads, I was cutting trees. There used to be Douglas firs and hemlocks up here so big five men together couldn’t get their arms around them. We cut them all. Sometimes I’m sorry I did it, but we had four hungry kids.”

  Tye nodded. He’d grown up where people made their living how they could, so he didn’t judge.

  “You looking for horns or meat?” Gilford asked, giving Tye that searching look that made him a little uncomfortable.

  “Meat. I don’t care about antlers. I’ll shoot a cow elk if I see one. I just want to stock my freezer.”

  Gilford cocked his head at him. “A fellow can buy a side of beef, instead of walk around in the rain.”

  Tye shrugged. “My buddy broke his leg right after we bought our land. My last job owes me money, but it hasn’t shown up yet. We won’t starve, but my truck needs fixed, and we don’t have extra money.”

  Gilford nodded. “I’m not one of them damn animal rights activists, but I don’t much care for eating cows pumped full of drugs and kept in a stockyard standing in their own shit for a week.”

  “Me either.”

  Gilford nodded, as if satisfied by something. “You keep the elk hide or let it rot?”

  “I tan them.”

  Gilford turned on his heel, walked back towards his truck. Tye was confused for a second, thinking he’d said something to offend the older man.

  “Well, come on back to my truck. I got something to show you,” Gilford said over his shoulder.

  Bemused, Tye followed. From behind the seat of his truck, Gilford pulled out a pair of work gloves and handed them to Tye. The palms showed signs of heavy use, but they were far from worn out.

  “I killed that elk the same year we elected that dumb son of a bitch that got us into that stupid war. I use them every day and they’re like new.”

  Tye wasn’t sure what dumb son of a bitch Gilford meant, but they were fine gloves. Since he worked with his hands, Tye appreciated such things. The
leather was tough, but supple.

  “My buddies used to make fun of me for packing those hides out. Wet, they weigh seventy, eighty pounds. But its wrong to let it lay there and rot. It seems like….”

  Gilford hunted around for the word he wanted for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. “Now I’m a Christian man, not an animal worshipper, but it feels like sacrilege. I think that’s the word I want.”

  Tye nodded his head. “I agree.”

  Gilford put the gloves back, pulled out a sheathed knife, and handed it to Tye.

  “More elk leather on that sheath, and that horn on the handle is from a bull I shot over twenty years ago. I don’t hang antlers on the wall. I use them.”

  The handle was warm in his hand. It was smooth, but it wouldn’t slip, even if it was wet.

  “I have a friend that makes stuff out of an antler,” Tye said. “Handles, buttons.”

  Gilford gave a curt nod which Tye took to mean that idea passed muster. Tye handed the knife back. It began to rain. Gilford grabbed an old Army poncho out from behind the seat. Tye glimpsed the butt of a rifle and craned his neck to look.

  “That’s Old Sure Shot,” Gilford said, and pulled a lever action Winchester Model 1886 rifle from behind the seat. He showed Tye it was unloaded before handing it to him.

  The bluing had faded to a dull gray, and worn to the bare metal on the bottom of the receiver, right where a person would put their hand to carry the rifle. The wood of the buttstock and fore-end was dark with age.

  “I bought that rifle the year I graduated high school. Bucked hay all summer long to pay for it. Had a machinist at work drill and tap it for that aperture sight and used it ever since.” Gilford pointed at a row of brass tacks on one side of the stock. “Each one of those is an elk.”

  The tacks were too many for Tye to count. He ran his hand up the braided leather rifle sling.

  “Wow.” Tye’s own rifle was serviceable, but it was a cheap, mass produced thing of matte finished metal and plastic.

  “Guys these days are dragging damn sniper rifles around the woods. With this old .45-70, you have to get close, but it puts them on the ground, and they never knew what hit them. I don’t gut shoot an animal. If I didn’t have a good shot, I waited. I watched more than my fair share of elk walk off without pulling the trigger.”

  “I passed on a bull yesterday. Shot wasn’t right,” Tye said.

  He handed the rifle back to Gilford, who took it, and for a second acted as if he would pass it right back to Tye. A troubled look crossed his face, then cleared as he stowed the gun behind the seat of the truck.

  “So, you have any tips?” Tye asked.

  Gilford looked at Tye for so long he started to feel uncomfortable.

  “Well. You’ve got the right idea. You aren’t afraid to push through the pucker brush. That last ridge you walked, the one by Green Lookout Mountain, was a good spot, you just didn’t get lucky.”

  Tye didn’t remember telling Gilford he’d been on Green Lookout. How the hell did he know that?

  Gilford looked off in the distance. “The fellow that taught me to elk hunt, not just drive around in a truck, was Old Joe. Hell, he was ancient when I was twenty years old, so he’s long gone now. He was half Indian.”

  “Now I’m a Christian man, not a heathen like Old Joe, but he taught me if you wanted the forest to give you something, you had to show it respect, and ask it to feed you. I’ve told nobody this before, but I’d say a prayer when I’d sit with my rifle.”

  Gilford looked at Tye, to see his reaction. Tye just stood there, rapt. Gilford looked older now, as if he’d aged a decade since they’d first started talking, and there was a sickly cast to his skin. Tye figured it must be the change in the light since the clouds had moved in overhead.

  “The second thing he taught me, is you need to have respect for the animal. These damn trophy hunters want a set of antlers to hang on the wall. They leave the hide and only take enough meat to not get their license suspended. When Old Joe finished with an elk, there wasn’t enough meat on its bones to make a sandwich. That’s how I’ve always done it.”

  “I don’t waste,” Tye said.

  “Old Joe took the elk skull back to where he killed it. You tie it in a tree, facing east, towards the rising sun.”

  Tye nodded. That sounded good, but he was having trouble figuring out how it helped him right now.

  Gilford was quiet for a minute. He looked around at the mountains, breathed in the air. He looked at Tye as if seeing him for the first time. His brows furrowed.

  “You’re sure you want meat? You sure you’re not one of those trophy hunters who will just cut the antlers off and leave the rest to rot?”

  “I’m sure,” Tye said, beginning to wonder if Gilford was getting soft in the head.

  With that, Gilford relaxed.

  “Well, I’ve got one last idea for you, then I need to fade away.” He pointed off in the distance.

  “Go to the end of that ridge. Park at the end of the road and walk from there. It gets almighty thick with the vine maple and salmonberries. It’s steep, but you keep going and you’ll find a flat spot in among the trees. There’s a saddle where the elk move from one ridge line to the next. You follow me?”

  Tye nodded. He remembered that ridge from the topographical maps he’d studied for hours.

  “That’s where I went when I needed meat. I had 18 months once with no work but picking up scrap metal, mowing rich men’s lawns, and fixing fences. It tore me up to watch my wife and our kids getting skinny. I poached a deer that year. I’m not proud of it, but I did it and I won’t apologize for it. But a deer only goes so far with five mouths to feed.”

  Gilford paused for a second and stared off over at the ridge across the valley. Tye realized the old man was fighting back tears.

  “I sat there opening morning of elk season. No sooner had the sun come up than this young three-point bull stepped out in front of me. It wasn’t but thirty yards. He looked right at me and paused, as if to say ‘Well get it over with, and don’t you dare make a mess of it and gut shoot me.’ I felt bad shooting him, but we needed to eat. So I held hard and squeezed gentle. He took two steps and fell over dead. Bullet took off the top of his heart.”

  “Wow,” Tye said.

  Gilford clapped him on the shoulder. “You aren’t desperate for meat. Your family won’t starve, but you need to get an elk this year. That voice in the back of your head is saying you aren’t a real hunter. That voice is saying you should work extra hours and feed your wife and baby store-bought meat that came from a dumb shit cow.”

  Tye blinked. He didn’t have a wife and baby. It sounded like Gilford was confusing Tye’s story with his own, but Tye didn’t want to argue with the old guy.

  “I hope you get meat,” Gilford said. He winced and grabbed his side as if it pained him. After he a few seconds he straightened and his hand dropped.

  “I’ll do it,” Tye said.

  Gilford smiled. It made him look twenty years younger and much happier. He stuck out his hand.

  “Good luck,” Gilford said.

  “Thanks.” Tye shook his hand.

  Without another word, Gilford got in his truck, cranked that old V-8 and executed a three-point turn to get headed the other way on the road. He gave a wave out the open window, then drove away. The rumble of his engine faded, swallowed by the wind.

  The sun set early this time of year. Tye had to decide. In the distance, he saw another band of rain clouds moving his way fast. In the truck he pulled out his map. It showed a long, unbroken knife-edge ridge. Saddles were a prime spot to ambush elk as they moved from one drainage to another.

  Maybe Gilford was wrong. Maybe the map was wrong.

  “What the hell,” Tye said. He started the truck and headed that way. This might be a waste of time, but he figured that ridge was a good as any.

  The road ended at a clearing. Tye donned a small backpack, grabbed his gun, and eased the truck door shut so it wo
uldn’t make a noise.

  Tye took a deep breath and walked into the woods. He resolved to enjoy the rest of the day. Sneaking around among the trees, he felt at home. After three months shooting a reality television show, Tye felt half crazed, as if he’d become a zoo animal.

  Gilford was right. There was a saddle up here. Fifty yards from where he’d parked the truck, Tye started down a steep slope, covered with a tangled mess of vine maple, young alders and Oregon grape. It was so thick he had to turn sideways to pass between the trees.

  “Gilford, what have you gotten me into,” he muttered under his breath. Tye considered turning around, but the thought of pulling himself hand over hand up the hill seemed like too much. He pressed on, hoping to find a clearing to sit and rest a while before quitting.

  The thicket closed in around him, and he fought back panic and claustrophobia as he wormed his way through alders and vine maple so thick he could barely thrust an arm through. He untangled himself from a long, creeping tendril of trailing blackberry wrapped around his ankle and stepped out into the open.

  The trees here were giants. Tye had seen old pictures of trees this big being hauled away on railroad flatcars. Often the butt end of them were bigger than the men standing next to them were tall.

  These trees were alive. Tye imagined he’d stepped into a fairy tale. The trunks rose for a hundred feet before they even began to branch. Deep fir needle duff covered the ground.

  There was little vegetation growing in the deep shade under the trees, and Tye wondered if it was a mistake to hunt here. There didn’t seem to be any food sources for elk. But as he walked a few more feet down the slope, he saw a big pile of elk scat, then another, and then some prints.

  He found a game trail, so wide it was easily mistaken for a hiking trail maintained by the Forest Service. After a hundred yards, it led to a small clearing. A massive fir lay on its side, felled by wind or old age. Its fall had created a gap for light to shine where berry bushes and other greenery grew.

 

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